What do you do?
No. What do you REALLY do?
Remember when you were a teenager, and the supportive grownup in your life would corner you at some school sponsored event or family gathering, gaze at you thoughtfully, and utter the most dreaded words in the history of young adulthood:
“So, what do you want to do?”
WHAT THE FUCK? HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW? CAN I FINISH BEING A KID NOW OR WHAT? - is the response you may wish you had given.
And honestly. What the actual fuck, grownups? Can we just make a pact to never utter those words to the young adults we support, lest we further propagate this ill-conceived notion that anyone—at any time—knows what they want to do?
The only sentence more terrifying than that uttered by the supportive grownup to the young adult at the family gathering, is the one mindlessly hurled at a complete stranger in line at the drug store or some angst inducing networking event:
“What do you do?”
Because by this point, we should have it figured out, right?
“I’m a writer.”
Sympathetic (or condescending) smile. “No. What do you really do?”
“Oh, what I really do is this: I get up in the morning and make breakfast for my kids. I pack them a lunch and send them off to school. Then I sit down at my desk and build worlds and create life. Then I take an exercise break for circulation. Then I engage with other world builders and life creators online for a while. If I’m feeling stuck, I might perform a sort of surgery on my brain to extract ideas and concepts that I might one day mold into something poetic or humorous or soul defining. Then I eat lunch. I hit walls. Dive down rabbit holes. Drink poison. Build heroes. Deconstruct villains. Fall in love. Break hearts. Off people. Bring them back. Make memories. And change lives. Then I take the dog for walk. Greet my family. Eat dinner. Watch TV and go to bed.
What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Awesome. The antacids are in aisle three.”
I’ve recently found comfort in referring to myself as a “practicing writer”. I like this. It takes some of the pressure off. I’m not declaring myself a “WRITER” or an “AUTHOR” or a “WORLD BUILDER” or “LIFE CREATOR”, even though I really am ALL of those things as a fiction writer (and mom—hullo!).
“What do you want to do?”
I want to be a writer.
“What do you do?”
I practice being a writer. Every day.
“What do you really do?”
See above.